


Patchwork Love

by rizcriz



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Love Confessions, M/M, Spoilers for season three, the reappearance of everyones favorite blanket
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-10
Updated: 2018-07-10
Packaged: 2019-06-08 06:16:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15237225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rizcriz/pseuds/rizcriz
Summary: Quentin clears his throat. “Right. Sorry. I—I hear you can create things pulled from memory?”(Alt. Quentin's Grand Romantic Gesture)





	Patchwork Love

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from an As It Is song bc its too perfect and bc Quentin Grand Romantic Gesture is too on the nose.

He’s not even sure it’ll work. But Kady mentioned it once, absentmindedly, from her place at the center of the couch in the physical kids cottage. And they’ve (once again) successfully stopped another disaster, and beat the library,  _ and _ got magic back. 

The only thing that’s not how it should be is entirely Quentin’s fault, and even if this doesn’t work, he has a back up plan. Because things are finally going to be perfect. They’re all going to live, no more monsters are coming to kill them or fuck shit up, and they’re going back to Fillory. For good. He just . . . needs to make something as abundantly clear as is possible, so nobody (read: Eliot) gets it into their thick skulls that what he’s asking for is less than what he wants. 

He walks through the shops doors, flinching as he crashes through the curtain of stringed beads, and a loud bell chimes to announce his presence, loud and assuming in his ears. 

“Ah! How can I help you?” 

Quentin opens his eyes, then, tilting his shoulder up and swiping at the beads clinging to him, until they all fall and clash noisily behind him. “Uh—I,” He looks back at the beads, contemplating an escape, before turning back around. “I hear you, can. My fr—well, she’s not really a friend. I mean, kind of? We’re not close—“ 

“Sir?” 

Quentin clears his throat. “Right. Sorry. I—I hear you can create things pulled from memory?” 

The shopkeeper makes a face, before leaning forward conspiratorially, “And who did you say sent you here?” 

“Kady? Orloff-Diaz?” He expects he’ll have to describe her, but the shopkeepers eyes brighten with recognition. 

“Ah, yes. my favorite little hedge witch. Tell me, how is she? She’s not stopped by in a while. Though, I expect that has to do with the chaos surrounding magic.” 

“I—she. It’s a long story? But she’s okay? Now?” 

“Brilliant!” He motions over his shoulder, “Follow me, then. I’ll just have to ask a few questions and then we can—“ 

“There is, uh. One. Thing? I should mention.” 

“What’s that?” 

“The memory is… from a separate timeline? That didn’t happen, but also kind of did.” 

“But it’s still clear?” 

“As if I’d lived it in this lifetime, yeah.” 

The shopkeeper grins, “Brilliant. That’s all we need. A clear image and moment from which to pull from.” He steps out from behind the counter, and holds a hand out for Quentin. “Come on my little lamb. To the slaughter we go!” 

“What?” 

“You’ll see. Memory stripping isn’t too much fun. Some women have likened it to child birth.” 

“Oh.” 

“Doubts?” 

Quentin swallows thickly, because no. There aren’t any doubts. Not anymore. Not after six months as Brian, and four more with Eliot as a nameless creature inhabiting his body. Not after quests and deaths and mayhem. No more fucking doubts so long as …. his anxiety reddened mind allows him to go without. Which probably has a time limit of about five more minutes. 

“No, but—"

“Best get started, understood. Come along.” 

And then they disappear through the back and there’s really no going back from here, is there? 

  
  


** 

 

During the quest, he didn’t tell anyone, but he’d created a journal. A timestamp of every quest related moment that mattered, or had an affect. 

The day they stepped through the clock, but also didn’t, is preceded and followed up by three empty pages. So Quentin can always find it easily enough, without bookmarking it with hearts and enchantments that basically screams at any onlookers (read: his nosy-ass friends) to  _ HEY COME LOOK AT WHAT QUENTIN’S GOT UNDER HIS BED. _

So, he knows what today is. Has known for weeks. Months, even. But the last couple weeks are all that matters. Because there’s a disconnect from their feelings and their actions, now. Whereas before, everything came easy. Or, as easy as things involving Eliot Waugh can possibly grow to become. But now, there’s an invisible wall built up. From Quentin being Brian and crying over Eliot’s (second) death upon getting his memories back, without knowing that Eliot had been very much alive, but hiding beneath the creature, watching everything around them unfold without any control. To that moment, just a few weeks ago.

Of the fire beneath Eliot’s eyes slowly fading to confusion, to Quentin being pulled into a world crushing hug, and all of their friends piling on top of them.

To Eliot looking at him like he wants to say something, but being just as frightened as Quentin for once in his life.

Because so much has happened.

But beneath all their trauma and pain and loss, they’ve still got feelings piling up high and wide for the entire world to see if they just take one look at either of them. 

But Eliot sees rejection and regret, when he looks at Quentin. He knows it. Because every time Quentin’s taken the opportunity to mention his feelings, in the past or in recent weeks, Eliot politely reminds him that he’s passed the point of experimenting and having stress related romps in the darkest nights of war. 

Eliot, as closed off as he can be sometimes, is looking for a fairytale. Or, as close to one as he can graze his fingertips up against. 

And, in all honesty, after all that they’ve been through, Quentin’s on the same page. 

He’s not in love with Alice, or bored, or desperate for a time killer. 

He doesn’t want Eliot because it’s convenient. Because it’s not. It’s messy and consuming, and they keep finding ways to hurt each other. They keep fucking everything up. It’s mostly Quentin, but Eliot has his moments, too. 

But it’s time for Quentin to take a stand. Because it’s always Eliot, watching and waiting and willing when the time comes. It’s always Eliot willing to take the plunge. To get hurt. But he’s been hurt enough. He’s suffered enough.

So, Quentin didn’t say anything. Until he remembers an offhanded comment Kady said once. About a stuffed bear she loved as a toddler that was stolen. About her mom, tapping her temple and saying, “ _ My Kady girl, you never have to worry about losing the things you love, so long as you have them up here _ .” Of the secret magic shop that spells items from memory into existence. 

He looks down at the bag as he makes his way up the stairs of the cottage, still surprised the shopkeeper had managed to find it with all his digging. His head and body are still so, so sore. But today is the day preceded and followed by blank pages.

Today is the only day to Make A Point.

There are no girls with baskets of peaches and plums to distract him. Only a girl he once loved, who’s grown into herself, and has moved on. A house full of friends. No distractions. Nothing. 

He can’t think of a place he’d rather be. 

Which is why, when he reaches the top of the stairs, and stops in front of Eliot’s door, that he shakes his head, turns away, and heads for his own bedroom. He sets the bag on his bed, gently, and thinks, as loud as he can for Penny to appear. 

He should know by now to specify, but it’s too late because new and old Penny are standing in his room, staring at him with matching looks of disappointment. “What?” 

It’s eerie, how their voices echo when they speak at the same time. 

He smiles guiltily up at them. “I was just wondering… if you could help me set something up.” 

“ _ What _ ?” New Penny asks, just as Old Penny scoffs.

Quentin’s grin turns up three degrees. “I’m going to tell Eliot I love him.” 

“Ten years later…” 

New Penny shoots Old Penny a glare, and turns his attention back on Quentin. “You know I can’t do that for you, right?” 

“No, no, no, yeah. i know. I just. Was hoping, you could convince him to step through the clock and go to Fillory? Maybe, make it seem like a group outing kind of thing?” 

“You could just walk into his room and say ‘hey love you, let’s fuck,’” Old Penny says, raising his eyebrows, “It literally doesn’t need to be this difficult.” 

New Penny scoffs this time. “Man,” He says, “Did you lose your sense of romance in the underworld or something?” He rolls his eyes and grabs Old Penny by the elbow before shooting Quentin a look. “We’ll get it handled.” 

“No we w—“ 

“No more  _ pining _ .” 

Old Penny stops struggling, and levels Quentin with a look Quentin can’t quite comprehend. “He’ll be there in an hour.”

He just opts to take that as a win and grins.

  
  


**  

 

Not even forty five minutes later, Quentin hears the tale tell sign of someone walking through the woods, as leaves and twigs break beneath their feet. He straights out the blanket beneath him, and adjust the plates of food, swallowing anxiously, as the footsteps get closer. 

“Hello? Look—not that I’m not into the cabin in the woods vibe, here, guys, I just—“ Eliot stops mid-sentence as he breaks through the trees and comes face to face with Quentin and the picnic. “Oh.” He doesn’t move. Even his hand stays planted on the side of the tree, where Quentin’s pretty sure the bark is digging into the palms of his hands painfully. 

“I thought we could--“ 

“Where did you get that?” 

Eliot still hasn’t moved. But his eyes are drawn to the ground in front of Quentin. And his voice is higher, slightly panicked or shocked, Quentin’s not sure.

But, he will admit that he’s starting to feel a bit panicked as his own eyes slide down to the blanket he’s sitting on. He clears his throat, and shrugs, before looking back up at Eliot. “I was hoping we—we could. Uh. Eat, and you’d notice it somewhere around the strawberries? And then I could give this—this speech. It’s not really a speech. I mean. It is but—“ 

“Q?” 

“Right, sorry. I—“ 

“How—“ 

“I had a magician pull it from my memory and give it a form?” 

Eliot’s eyes snap back up to Quentin’s, then. “What? Why?” 

“Because I—uh. Wanted—Shit.” He shuffles up to his knees, panicking truly now, as the plates and drinks shake dangerously around him, until he can push onto his feet and stand up. He looks down at the slight state of chaos overtop the blanket. “See—you. You ruined it, you know?” He says, looking back up. “You were supposed to—to, just. Walk through and be like, ‘oh, what’s this?’ and I’d grab one of the cups,” He pauses, pointing shakily at the cup that had been by his foot just moments ago, “And I’d say, ‘Happy Anniversary, Eliot’ and you’d think on it, all confused like, what, but then you’d see the blanket. And then, you’d look up at me, then the cup, then the blanket—“

“And then I’d kiss you?” 

Can a person's heart stop without it killing them? Can Quentin’s heart stop in his chest? Is that a thing that can happen? 

Because if not, help, someone call an ambulance or something because he’s almost definitely dying. 

“Q?”

He wills himself to look back up at Eliot, with the tiniest of nods. “Yeah, actually.” 

“Like last time.” 

“Yeah.” 

“Last time, we—“ 

“We could have done better,” Quentin interrupts, taking a needy step closer. Just because they haven’t been as close lately as they were before, doesn’t mean he doesn’t long for the proof of Eliot’s existence, in either touches, or just the proof of life given by the warmth he emanates. “We—we can. We still have a chance, to. To do this right. We’re not in any danger—“ 

“Which is the only time you’re—“

“That’s not true. I just—I fucked up. A lot. But I’m not only interested when we’re in peril or something. I—I. I always want you around. And, I—I don’t know. Fuck,” He hisses, reaches up to run a hand through his hair in frustration, “I forgot my speech. You—you weren’t supposed to see it and then this gets all confrontational. It—it was going to be romantic and. And I was going to tell you I love you, in that really weird, all consuming, sometimes fucks up my spells because I’m too happy for them to work, kind of way. But I can’t even—“ 

“Q.” 

“—do that right because I’m such a fucking disaster. And I just wanted to prove—“

“Q.” 

“—to you that I’m in this for the long run, and that I’m not—“

“Q, you’re panicking.” 

“—just looking for a quick, time killing problem solving fuck, or anything like that. I mean, obviously—“ 

“Quentin—“

“—I want to sleep with you again, because hello, but I—“

Eliot comes striding forward in four long steps until he grabs Quentin by his shoulders. “Q, you’re spiraling. Stop.” 

“But I—“ 

“Stop.” He looks him in the eye, mimes taking a deep breath, which makes Quentin realize that he’d somehow said everything without taking any breaths in, so he follows the mime, until he’s not panting for air. Until they’re standing beneath the Fillorian trees, staring at each other. He’s not sure if it’s the exercise, or just because of how intoned they are with each other, but their chests are rising and falling at the same rate. Touching on the inhale, and separating on the exhale. Again and again. 

Quentin keeps getting little glimpses of the feel of Eliot’s heartbeat. 

“Are you good now?” 

“Am I ever?” 

“Are you going to faint?” 

“No.” 

“Good.” He half expects Eliot to pull away, but the concern in his eyes slowly fades, as the crinkles at the corners of his eyes appear until he’s staring down at Quentin like he knows something Quentin doesn’t—which is always dangerous. 

“What?” 

“You told me you love me.” 

“What?” He furrows his brow, before sighing, because yeah, he had just blurted it out. “Shit—I—“ 

“Don’t apologize, Q.” He leans down, pressing his forehead to Quentins. “You got the blanket. From the night we kissed outside the house by the mosaic.” Quentin nods, his eyes fluttering shut. “You didn’t buy something similar, or go to a shop in Fillory and see if there were any. You went to a hedge witch parlor, and had it literally ripped out of your memory like it's some kind of mix tape CD from the early 2000’s.” 

“A mixtape would have been a lot less painful.” 

Eliot chuckles. “Physically, maybe. But mentally? The emotional harm? It wouldn’t be worth it.” 

“Are—“ 

“For the record, I love you, too.” 

Quentin opens his eyes then. “But you’ve been avoiding me. I thought—“ 

One of Eliot’s hands come up, his thumb grazing against Quentin’s cheekbone, while the palm of his hand wraps around his jawline. “I figured it’d be less traumatic.” 

“What?” 

“What the creature did to you…it was in my body. I figured the less you had to look at me, the easier it’d be.” 

Quentin swallows thickly. “I mean,” He says, “I kind of never want to—to stop looking at you.” 

“Oh?” 

“No.” 

Eliot grins down at him, and before Quentin even realizes what's happening, he finds himself pushed up against the same tree Eliot had held onto. And Quentin was right—the bark is sharp. But so are Eliot’s teeth, and they’re glinting in the sunlight as Eliot looks him over. “Then you don’t have to,” He says, leaning back in, until his nose presses against Quentin’s. 

“Okay. That—that’s—“ 

“Do you want to keep talking, or do you want to make use of the blanket you so painfully collected?” 

“I—I also—cooked…”

“I’m hungry,” Eliot nods, “But not for food.” 

“That was—disgustingly cheesy.” 

“Coming from you? The one who had his friends trick me into thinking there’s a big, creepy picnic in the woods. When instead it’s a poorly crafted love confession?” 

“Ouch.” 

Eliot chuckles, “I’m sorry,” He says, “But you really didn’t think it through, at all.” 

“Do I ever?” 

“….Fair enough.”

They stand quietly for a few moments, breathing each other in. Until Quentin, impatient and expectant, pulls back enough, just to say, “So… are you going to kiss me? Or?” 

Eliot’s laughter is the last thing he hears before he feels his lips on his.

  
  


**

 

When they get back to the cottage, they wash the blanket, and fold it up, setting it alongside the back of the couch, so they can see it whenever they’re home, to remind them.

 

**

 

“I swear to god if that is the sex blanket on the couch that we all sit our happy asses on, I am actually going to murder you both. I don’t care if  _ Eliot is my best friend! _ ” 

It finds its new home on Quentin and Eliot’s shared bed. 

  
  
  
  



End file.
